Years into my love affair with Paris, I’m still making ridiculous rookie mistakes. I suppose it’s time to accept that France will always have the upper hand, but it still stings.

My most recent humiliation is horse-related. Or at least, I thought it was.

Please note that I was a horse-obsessed child, so equine-related topics are particularly touchy for me. As a child, I would sometimes dress in riding garb for no reason at all. And while I was waiting for my parents to break down and buy me a real horse (never happened), I would drag garbage cans into the backyard and ride them, periodically switching from one member of the “herd” to the next. On any given afternoon, people in the house could gaze out and see me whipping a particularly stubborn garbage can with my riding crop.

Steak à Cheval (L. Richarz)

So when I first moved to Paris and started noticing “steak à cheval” on menus around town, I was wary. I knew there was a historical precedent of eating horse meat in France, but it seemed quite inhumane in this day and age. Nonetheless,  I assumed it was some kind of trendy gastronomic revival, and who was I to question the local gourmands? So I kept my mouth shut and simply avoided the dreaded horse steak when confronted with it.

Recently, I was visiting my boyfriend’s family in Brazil. One night, we sat down to dinner and I was presented with a traditional dish called bife a cavalo (in Portuguese), which translates to “horse-riding steak” or “steak à la horse.”

“Horse?” I asked, panic rapidly setting in.

“No, it’s like steak à cheval in France,” G explained.

“Sooo….. horse?” I wondered again.

It was at this point that I realized I’d been operating under a serious misapprehension, and it took the collision of three cultures for the truth to surface.

Tyrolian Andy

No wonder the French had seemed so lax about all that presumed “horse-eating”—they weren’t eating horse at all. It turns out that steak à cheval (or bife a cavalo) is merely a cut of beef with a fried egg on top. It turns out the French aren’t as barbaric as I thought! And it turns out I’m kind of an idiot.

I shudder to think what other misconceptions I’ve been carrying around all this time, but I have a feeling the truth will win out. Paris will see to that.

Related Links:

• Mark Bittman has his ideas about the best steaks in Paris
• Looking for non-steak options in Paris? Check out David Lebovitz’s handy guide (and the useful links below!)
• If you’re in the mood for a burger in Paris, check out Lindsey’s (Lost in Cheeseland) review of Blend

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

Film still from Midnight in Paris

“I don’t deliberately make a film a year, but that seems to be what happens,” Woody Allen told me when I caught up with him at an event last December in New York. “Eventually I will stop working or keel over, but so far everything’s been going along fine.”

At the time, he had just wrapped Midnight in Paris, which headlined this year’s Cannes Film Festival in May (and is now in theaters in France and the United States). I had been anticipating this film ever since my friend caught a glimpse of the crew shooting on one of the quais last fall, and I was curious to see how Allen would interpret (or misinterpret) Paris.

Pierre Guy, Confucion

In short, Midnight in Paris follows Owen Wilson’s character, an earnest American novelist, as he is unexpectedly lured into a magical world, populated by the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Dalí, Luis Buñuel, Man Ray, T. S. Eliot, and the list goes on. Late in the film, a spin through the Belle Epoque has Wilson rubbing shoulders with Gauguin, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec.

Like many of Allen’s films, the whole thing was pretty far-fetched, but I must admit, it totally captivated me in the watching. More importantly, it made me laugh at myself—if only because it played with so many of the stereotypes that lure starry-eyed Americans (myself included) to Paris. Owen Wilson’s literary-inspired naïveté struck a serious chord with me. It’s no coincidence that when I first arrived, I named my blog A Moveable Beast in honor of the bohemian, writer-ly existence I planned to cultivate.

Film still from Midnight in Paris

But for all ex-pats who choose to live in Paris for romantic reasons, there eventually comes a reckoning. Amidst the magic, there are contemporary realities that ultimately chip away at one’s starry-eyed view of the city. As the film ended, I found myself craving a sequel where Owen Wilson stops cavorting with Gertrude Stein and actually tries to set up an SFR account, square away his carte de séjour, and find a taxi at 3am on a Saturday in the Marais. Alas, such activities don’t make for a very compelling film.

Little Brown Pen

For most ex-pats (Owen Wilson and myself included) the challenge of life in Paris is to balance the romance with the reality, to let yourself get carried away on occasion, but also stay grounded in the here and now. It’s quite possible to strike a satisfying equilibrium: you can pour over A Moveable Feast and get your apartment wired with Wifi, get lost in the photos of Robert Doisneau and lug lampshades home from BHV. Such activities are not mutually exclusive.

As Allen demonstrates in his film, there is the Paris we dream of, the Paris that exists, and the all-important intersection of the two. I consider myself to have one foot in reality and one foot in a completely absurd fantasy world—and that’s just how I like it.

Florent Solt

Related links:

• Watch the trailer for Midnight in Paris on Pret à Voyager
• Making Magique has some adorable Midnight in Paris-esque shots
• Tory chronicled her comical experiences in Paris on her blog, A Moveable Beast

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve left a quirky store or hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Paris and thought, “How does that place stay in business?” And I mean that as the highest compliment.

While commerce in the rest of the world seems to be accelerating at a highly unpleasant rate, Parisian proprietors, on the other hand, know how to slow down—and still manage to survive.

Julien Hausherr

Olivier Camus’ Le Chapeau Melon is one such place. I first visited three years ago, just after I moved to Paris. The warm reception, perfect filet de boeuf, and eye-opening bottle of Morgon solidified my notion that I had come to the right city.

When I finally returned this spring, I was reminded all over again why Paris is the best place to eat in the world: nothing had changed. And rightly so—why mess with a good thing?

Julien Hausherr

Camus (who is also involved with foodie hub Le Baratin, just up the street from Le Chapeau Melon in Belleville) is known as one of Paris’ most dedicated cavistes and as an early proponent of the natural wine movement that is now sweeping the city. Le Chapeau Melon began as a wine store and evolved into a table d’hôte that now serves a €32.50 prix fixe menu (Wednesday-Saturday) and an à la carte selection on Sundays.

Julien Hausherr

It’s not a coincidence that “In Vinas No Veritas” is emblazoned on the wall above the door. Beginning at around €11 a bottle, the cave’s selection of French and Italian wines is diverse and thoughtfully selected, with many organic options available and a reasonable corkage fee (€8.50).  We opted, however, to try out a few different wines by the glass—a Chardonnay pétillant, a crisp Derain Chablis, a 2009 Guillot Bourgogne—to accompany the different courses.

Erica Berman

First up was a super fresh pair of oysters adorned with a Japanese ginger relish, followed by the entrée (a tomato-sardine tartelette for me and a pork carpaccio with a creamy anchovy-lemon sauce for G). For our main courses, we tried the lamb with a delicate mint and coconut sauce, and a joue de boeuf in broth with winter vegetables. Both were well cooked, unpretentiously presented, and quickly devoured.

Jerome, our friendly waiter, took the time to chat with us about the menu and the origin of its incredibly offerings: the duck came from Rouen, the pork from Pays Basque, and the fish from Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Regional sourcing at its best.

Julien Hausherr

By international standards (and even by Parisian standards) the service was frightfully slow, but perhaps that’s the point of Le Chapeau Melon. There is no table turnover, and as a result, the place takes on a “dinner party” ambiance where patrons linger over each spoonful. Over the course of the evening, you have plenty of time to analyze your fellow diners (a laid back international crowd) and to debate nihilism and the international drug trade (as we did).

After the three-hour meal, we strolled along the Rue de Belleville (downhill, not up), comforted by the thought that Paris still provides places where we can slow down and, simply, sit.

Erica Berman

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog.  Julien Hausherr is a photographer based in Paris, specializing in architecture, still-life and reporting. Contact: julienhausherr@hotmail.fr. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

When I lived in Paris full-time, I experienced the occasional bout of FFF (French Food Fatigue). My friends and I re-energized our taste buds with falafel, ramen and freakishly cheap dumplings in Belleville, but we all agreed that Paris needed a low-key Mexican spot.

Enter Candelaria, perhaps the buzziest opening of the spring. Less than two months old, this tucked-away spot in the haut Marais packs a double punch. The front section of the restaurant is a sparsely-decorated taco stand, which leads to a sultry cocktail den that you could easily overlook if you weren’t paying attention.

So pay attention! Tacos up front, booze in the back. I highly recommend sticking around for both, as I did when I visited.

The taqueria dining experience is decidedly casual. Grab a seat at the counter if you want to observe the action in the tiny kitchen, or if you’re with a group, you can try to claim the restaurant’s only table. Regardless, prepare to battle the crowds: when it comes to seating, demand far outweighs supply at this point.

But if you time it right (they’re open from noon-11pm, Tuesday-Sunday), you will not be disappointed. First of all, chef Luis Rendon is a Mexico City transplant, and he takes a simple but precise approach to his native cuisine. The concise menu includes reasonably priced meat and vegetarian classics like rajas con queso (sauteed peppers with melted cheese), tacos de carnitas (roasted pork), tostadas with stewed chicken or crumbly queso fresco (it’s the real deal). Items on the menu range from 2-5 Euros, and pair perfectly with the Mexican bottled beer available for 4-5 Euros.

Once you fill up on Mexican edibles, the real fun begins. Slipping into the hidden bar at the back of the restaurant feels like entering an alternate universe that’s part surfer hangout, part urban oasis, and part classic Parisian cave. The white walls of the taqueria suddenly give way to a modern, candle-lit space, where the original stone walls have been updated with modern wooden finishes and colorful mosaics.

We barely knew where to begin with the extensive and enticing cocktail menu. Larger groups might be tempted by the punch for 4-6 people (cachaca, sloe gin, lemon, grapefruit and champagne) for 48 Euros. But we decided to try out an array of drinks (at 12 Euros each):

• The Santa Margarita: Tequila, agave, hibiscus, vanilla, lime
• Pisco Disco: Pisco, aperol, house-made orgeat, lime, bitters
• Love by the Moon: Green tea-infused vodka, house-made citrus syrup, lime and house-made grenadine

Owner Adam Tsou swung by to chat and personally recommended the Pisco Disco, which comes adorned with edible glitter. Born in Connecticut and a graduate of New York University, Adam opened Candelaria along with his wife, Carina Tsou, and their partner Josh Fontaine (also a Connecticut-born NYU grad). All three met in Paris, where they worked at local watering holes such as Experimental Cocktail Club and The Moose.

It seems they combined the best of those environments, creating a sexy (but pretension-free) space that offers up some of the best cocktails in Paris. Many of the ingredients used to flavor and sweeten the drinks are made in-house, demonstrating the bartenders’ commitment to doing things right. And while Paris hasn’t always been a cocktail-y town, joints like Candelaria are swiftly putting it on the global mixology map.

I guess you can have your cocktail and drink it too. And while you’re at it, stay for tacos.

52 Rue de Saintonge, 3rd arrondissement. Tel: 01 42 74 41 28.

Further reading on this go-to spot:

• Trail of Crumbs on Candelaria
• The Paris Blog also reports on Candelaria.
• Still more on Candelaria on Food Buzz
• David Lebovitz on great Mexican spots in Paris

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog. All images by Julien Hausherr. Julien Hausherr is a photographer based in Paris, specializing in architecture, still-life and reporting. Contact: julienhausherr@hotmail.fr. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

When I arrive in Paris, it never hits me all at once. Rather, the realization that I’ve returned to my city-of-choice creeps up on me via small encounters, random observations and chance interactions. And when I finally realize where I am—Paris!—I begin to wonder, “Why did I ever leave?”

We’ll leave that question for another time, but for now, here’s how I know I’ve arrived.

1. I forget how to tell time, and relinquish the notion of scheduling. On my most recent visit, it took me a full 36 hours to realize that daylight savings had occurred. It didn’t help that when I had arrived a few days earlier and asked my boyfriend, “Where’s your clock?,” his response was: “There is no clock. I’m your clock.” Well, it turns out he’s a very unreliable clock—albeit a handsome one.

2. Everyone is buzzing about the same new spot.

Candelaria storefront on the rue Saintonge (Lost in Cheeseland)

Of course, this happens in every city, but in New York, the buzz is more liberally distributed. Paris’ slower rate of restaurant turnover means you can literally watch the swarm of foodies descend on the newest (and hopefully well-prepared) hot spots. This time around, it was all about Candelaria, which is to restaurants what the mullet is to haircuts: simple up front, hidden party in the back.

Delicious tacos at Candelaria (Lost in Cheeseland)

3. I can eat my weight in food and not get (too) fat. It’s one of the most beautiful unsolved mysteries of life in Paris. I can spend a week eating nothing but St. Marcellin, steak, tarte tatin and guzzling Cote du Rhone, and somehow end up thinner. There must be something in the Parisian water. Or perhaps I have gained weight and everyone’s just kindly letting me ride out this illusion. Hmmm…

Alexdecarvalho

4. I start buying myself roses. Roses aren’t normally my thing, but in Paris, I always come across these special ivory-colored ones that have a slight pink tint and a green tinge around the edges of the petals. They remind me of ballerinas, and at just 7 Euros per botte (“bunch”) at my local market, they suddenly morph from “occasional indulgence” into “daily necessity.”

There’s nothing wrong with buying yourself roses (Ddofr)

5. I spot my first dead pigeon. I admit this is a weird one, but nothing says “Paris” to me like a dead pigeon in the street. I have yet to get to the bottom of this mystery (a ravenous pigeon-eating monster roams the streets at night?), but every time I’m here, I come across a carcass or two. I want to say, “Be more careful, guys!” But who am I to tell a Parisian pigeon how to live its life?

Related links:

• Girl’s Guide to Paris’ review of Candelaria
• The things Amy Thomas only sees in Paris
• Fantastic tips on what to do in Paris from (who else?) Do it in Paris

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

Ballet flats (Paris in Pink)

Casual shoppers, beware. The French sales are just around the corner and many a French fashionista is getting ready to pounce on items she has secretly coveted all Fall. In all honesty, though, the soldes are often the one moment of fashion folly many Parisiennes allow themselves. For decades, one market has proven remarkably resistant to passing trends: Paris. Despite jumping at the occasional fad (the Balmain-inspired shoulder pad, the hardware-adorned gladiator sandal), Parisian shoppers — both young and old — follow certain cardinal rules in their shopping habits, year-in and year-out.

The key to this eternal French chic may lie in a natural sense of restraint and discernment. In considering her past wardrobe choices, a French woman is less inclined to wonder, “What was I thinking?” because (most likely) it’s what she’s still thinking: invest in high-quality staples and err on the side of understated elegance.

An Hermes scarf, guaranteed to never go out of style (Paris in Pink)

Here are the most time-tested items that can aid your journey towards impeccable Parisian dressing.

1. The scarf. Parisians’ year-round obsession with scarves has more to do with style than climate. For warmer months, a lightweight silk scarf (think Hermès) can sass up a basic outfit. As it gets colder, reach for heavier knits.

2. The trench. This old-school staple projects refined sexiness, while also combating the relentless Parisian drizzle.

3. The ballet flat. Brigitte Bardot helped put Repetto on the map when she began traipsing around town in the brand’s dance shoes in 1956. Nowadays, a pair or two is de rigueur for any pavement-pounding Parisian.

4. The pump. For the office or evening hours, an elegant heel is the way to go. Just make sure it’s walk-able—teetering is never a good look.

Fur and pumps – the Parisian mantra (Paris in Pink)

5. Le smoking. Created by YSL in 1966, this tuxedo jacket set the precedent in sexy menswear-inspired style for women. Today, you’ll find variations everywhere from H&M to the fashion house that originated the look.

6. The black pant. It’s a no-brainer, but a well-made pair of black pants (or a few, in various cuts and materials) provide the foundation for many a Parisian wardrobe.

7. White tailored shirt. Clean, classic and always in style.

8. The classic bag. Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. Bags that can appear too trendy in other environments somehow offer just the right touch when slung over the arm of a nattily dressed Parisian.

A classic Parisian look (Paris in Pink)

9. Touch of fur. Even the most basic outfit can be amped up by a hint of fur in the form of a hat, a stole, or a glove.

10. Minimal make-up. Well-maintained skin and hair are the domain of the French woman. Beyond that, a red lip or a kohl-lined eye can add drama—just don’t overdo it.

Finally, remember that it’s less about assembling a look than it is about owning it, so don’t forget to cultivate your je ne sais quoi.

Need a daily fashion fix? We love these:

• Garance Dore
• The Sartorialist
• Easy Fashion

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris blog. Featuring images by Camille from Paris in Pink. Camille is a French-American freelance writer living in Paris, and she adores pink! Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

All photos courtesy of Little Brown Pen

When I leave Paris for extended periods of time, I’m sometimes overcome with a panicky feeling that I’m losing touch, losing ground, floating into a France-less obscurity, and that when I return, I won’t recognize the city anymore. Or worse, that it won’t recognize me.

But as soon as I come back—as I have now, for three weeks—I realize the futility of such thinking. If there is any city that is adamant about retaining its traditions, its quirks, its pace and its “sameness,” it is Paris. So I’m happy to report that the French are more or less wearing the same thing (black), eating the same things (steak frites, baguettes, macarons), waiting for the same thing (retirement) and complaining about the same things (everything).

All photos courtesy of Little Brown Pen

On a recent stroll down the street where I used to live, I spotted the same old wine guy, cheerfully delivering bottles from door to door. He looked just the same as he had two years ago, when he helped me lug a box of champagne to my apartment for my 25^th birthday soirée.

When I spent a few weeks in Paris last winter, I was shocked and delighted to discover that my old friend, a particularly scruffy “dog on wheels,” was still kicking around my old neighborhood, rolling harness and all.

All photos courtesy of Little Brown Pen

And then, of course, we have the tastes, smells and sights that are unmistakably Parisian, and that I can’t imagine will disappear anytime soon: the haunting glow of the Pantheon at night, the salty-sour taste of Poilâne bread, and the steely-smoky smell of rain in November, when the city is teetering on the brink of winter.

Whereas some cities seem to be in a constant state of restlessness, of searching, of shifting, I often think that Paris remains relevant by virtue of its consistency and self-assuredness. It is what it is—take it or leave it.

All photos courtesy of Little Brown Pen

Of course, there is a “scene” here that moves, evolves, innovates and reinvents. But perhaps more importantly, there is a counter-scene, an anti-scene, an old-school adherence to the things that make Paris Paris. And both young and old, foreigners and French, residents and tourists can probably agree: We like it that way.

Related links:

• The Paris Effect also written by our own Tory Hoen
• The Cost of Feeling Good in Paris by Amy Thomas of God I love Paris
• Lessons from the Expat Book Club by Lindsey Tramuta of Lost in Cheeseland
• The Journey of Letting Go by Kasia Dietz of Love in the City of Lights

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog.  All photos taken by Nichole Robertson of  the  wonderful Blog Little Brown Pen. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

It’s time to address a theme that has become a highly controversial component of my Parisian life: the smile. When I first moved to Paris, I couldn’t figure out why people seemed to pick up on my non-French status before I had uttered a word. Finally, a friend informed me: “You smile too much.”

Apparently, I was blowing my own cover. And it’s true: just as Parisians have a reputation for being particularly scowl-y, the French think Americans are too quick to put on a happy face. From the French perspective, the law of diminishing returns applies to smiling—the more often you do it, the less potency it has.

But despite having spent a considerable amount of time in Paris, I can’t seem to train my facial muscles into submission. It doesn’t help that I have a LOT of inside jokes (with myself), so it’s not uncommon to see me cracking myself up on the Metro or as I walk down the street. I understand this makes me look like a crazy person and might be confusing to outside observers, who often stare at me as if to say: “What’s so funny, American interloper?”

Dave Bloom, Ko An

The answer: pretty much everything. (Except French advertisements, which try to be funny but are actually just weird and / or creepy).

Last time I was in Paris, I stopped at a tabac for an espresso. This was a legit tabac—the kind where grizzled old French guys convene to drink beer at 10am. I could tell the men at the bar didn’t really know what to make of me. It was definitely a “one of these things does not belong” situation. And while I’ve thought a lot about what it means to assimilate in Paris, I also get a kick out of subtly taunting the French and making them feel confused on their own turf. So I am pretty much in my element when surrounded by perplexed, drunk, old French guys.

Ed Yourdon

We exchanged some banter and as I left the tabac, the owner said, “Gardez toujours votre sourire” (always keep your smile). That won’t be a problem, as I’m subversive by nature and enjoy challenging French societal structure—one unabashed grin at time. Plus, I didn’t suffer two years of hideous braces for nothing. (The French may be super chic, but Americans have the best teeth. We just do).

So on that day, I resolved to make peace with my unshakeable facial habit. Because while idiotic grinning can be a handicap and a dead giveaway of one’s non-French status, it’s also the expat’s greatest weapon. In a sea of local scowls, a foreign smile opens doors (and sometimes those doors lead to bars where people buy you free drinks). So I say, work it.

Erica Berman  (Mika is American and Christophe is French!)

Related links:

• Parisian Salon on the Parisiennes’ aloofness
• The “Share-Happy” Vending machine
• The lovely Chanel Iman smiling on the Rue de Rivoli

I live in Paris now. I know this because every morning when I wake up, I experience a brief moment of panicky, delighted confusion… I have no idea where I am!

I remain disoriented until I ask myself the following questions:

Question: What are these sharp things in my bed?

Answer: Baguette crumbs. They were probably stuck to my face when I fell asleep.

Erica Berman

Question: Are there alien babies in my room?

Answer: No, just French babies in the courtyard, their voices glittering in the morning light.

Question: Is this butter-infused air I’m breathing?

Answer: Actually, yes. There’s a patisserie next door.

Ahhh, and it all starts to make sense. Once I’ve determined where I am, the day begins; and because this is Paris, every second of every day is poetic and beautiful, obviously.

First, I put my contact lentils in my eyes. I’ve started calling them this because that’s what the French call them—lentilles optiques—and I’m going with it. Then, I am almost tempted to eat Corn Flakes simply because they are so beautifully labeled here:  Pétales de Maïs Dorés au Four. Corn Petals made Golden in the Oven. Seriously? Leave it to the French to make Corn Flakes sound like something that might rain down on you in heaven if you’re lucky (as opposed to say, something that falls off a mangy dog that’s been digging around in the dumpster… Corn Flakes, indeed).

But, beautiful name or not, Corn Petals are not appropriate. It’s a lot more fun to go to a café where I can drink coffee for a mere 8€ and try to look pensive and mysterious. And so on and so forth throughout the day. You get the idea…

Basically, I’m an idiot who is, little by little, living my way through the romance and stereotypes of Parisian life because I know that… sometime very soon… Paris is going to become real to me.

In fact, it sort of already has. Somehow—don’t ask me how— the wily French have figured out that I’m not Parisian. No matter how many berets I don, or baguettes I eat, or accordions I play, or little dogs I put in the basket of my Vélib, somehow they know.

Erica Berman

For instance, the other day, I was struggling to open a very tricky door that involved a button and, well, it’s far too complicated to explain. Two French guys were watching me from the other side of the glass, amused and incredibly unhelpful. Five minutes later when I finally figured it out, I proudly burst through the door to hear them snarl “Bravo, l’Américaine” in between long, blasé drags of their Gauloises. Wait a minute… how did they… you mean to say… just looking like a door-confused idiot gives me away?!?! And I’m half-Canadian, goddamn it! But fair enough. This is all George Bush’s fault.

Don’t worry. I’m not discouraged. I’ve navigated most of the doors here with great success. And I’ve learned that some French people are actually nice, like the cheese man at the local market who, upon seeing me for the first time, ordered me to “Mangez!” And I did. I’ve always been good at taking direction. And he let me eat as much morbier as I could (which was way too much).

Or the other nice guy in the Jardin de Luxembourg who told me I looked like a statue and asked me if I was Swedish. OK, he was a little too nice, and now that I think about it, he didn’t have teeth.

Erica Berman

Clearly, I’m still figuring things out, very slowly. I’ve only been here for three weeks, and I think it will take me at least three more to perfect my F*ck-You-I’m-Parisian glare. But I will succeed. That’s why I’m here.

If you like this you might like:

• Paris or New York? The choice is tough
• Tory loses her shoe in the Metro

Written by Tory Hoen,  for the HiP Paris Blog. Originally published on Tory’s hysterical blog A Moveable Beast. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

I’ve been back in New York for three weeks and I still can’t stop. Whenever I spend time in Paris, I pick up a habit that is nearly impossible to kick. No, it’s not smoking; it’s worse… it’s the double air kiss (standard Euro protocol for both hello and goodbye).

This maneuver—which generally involves touching cheeks but kissing the air near the other person’s ear—is so ingrained in my muscle memory that it has become completely involuntary to me (much to the chagrin of my American friends). I try to catch myself, but it’s always a split second too late. It happens again and again: the unsuspecting American person I’m double-kissing stands there, utterly bewildered, as on-looking friends roll their eyes and say something along the lines of, “Oh, Tory thinks she’s sooooo Euro now.” Or worse, the other person sort of tries to go with it, and we do an awkward head-dodging thing, and then inadvertently end up making out. Ooops.

Huffington Post

I promise I am not trying to be Euro. In Paris, on fait la bise (we do the standard Parisian double-cheek kiss) every time we say hello and goodbye. If you’re entering or leaving a group, you have no choice but to go around to each person and kiss him or her individually.Depending on how many people you’re hanging out with, this can lead to upwards of 20 or 30 air kisses in a single evening. So believe me when I say: it’s a tough habit to shake.

The frustrating thing is that, by the time I do get the double kiss out of my system, I will probably be heading back to Europe where I will have to relearn to execute the motion with a natural “What? I’m Parisian” confidence. Balking at the moment of double-kiss truth is a dead giveaway that you’re not with the program, so beware.

A few quick rules:

• In small social settings, you fait la bise with everyone when you arrive. As subsequent people arrive, they will do so as well.

• In large social settings, you don’t have to circle the whole party doling out air kisses (easy, Tiger). Just prepare to do it when you greet individuals or are introduced to new people.

• In business settings, the handshake generally reigns supreme. Once you know your colleagues well, the bise may come into play. (Use your discretion).

Take note: In Paris, saying goodbye is important. You do not simply wave to the group as you sprint for a cab — known as filer à l’anglaise (British-style dashing) — nor do you pull an “Irish goodbye” (i.e. drink too much and then slip out the back door). Closure is a key element of proper etiquette, and there is a protocol (more air kissing!).

Once you get used to it, la bise is actually quite a pleasure. It’s fun, and it’s so institutionalized that you rarely have to deal with the awkward, “I sort of know that person… should I say hi?” The answer is yes; you should say hi. And you should kiss them and be friends, and everything will be lovely and oh-so-French. On that note, I don’t think I should be trying to kick this habit at all, even if it is geographically inappropriate. After all, Paris isn’t a place—it’s a state of mind.

Related links:

• Funny video (in French) about La Bise for foreigners
• Hysterical post on La Bise when you are sick on Je ne sais quoi
• More on French Bise etiquette from an American
• Funny Bise Comments from an EnglishPerspective
• Beware the Bise – Kissing Faux Pas

Written by Tory Hoen for the HiP Paris Blog. Looking for a fabulous vacation rental in Paris, Provence, or Tuscany? Check out Haven in Paris.

www.parisiensalon.com